


Nowhere Better Than

by cocoabutter



Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Agender Character, Fae & Fairies, Magic, liminal space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoabutter/pseuds/cocoabutter
Summary: The idea that most of the student populace are unaware of Elsewhere's unique circumstances is true in the case of Rye, who has gotten three years into her academic career without seeing anything extraordinary.





	

When she left the lecture, it was later than she remembered signing up for. But that usually happened; Comparative Literature was known for extensive events, academic or otherwise, and this last one on Kafka’s Interpretation of the Arab- which Rye understood little to nothing about- had gone on past eleven p.m.

 _So much for readings due tomorrow_ , the thought passed somewhat dismissively, because going to the lecture had scored her some major participation points, and she wanted Professor Khayyat to like her, even though the meetings were exhausting.

 

“I was starting to worry,” Linden said, straight brows tightening when Rye crossed the threshold into their room, careful not to step on the charms barring her way.

“Phone died,” Rye replied, already taking off her boots.

“What was it this time?” asked the inquisitive roommate, voice light and airy as always. (Linden’s attempts to be stern or reprimanding were usually off-put by that small voice)

“Um, Kafka. Well, mostly. Actually, barely, since it ended up being more of a discussion on racist archetypes in-”

“Stop, yeah, I get it, _comparative_ ,” Linden said, rolling her eyes. “With that professor, right? The one with the TA.”

Rye looked at her skeptically.

“I’m just telling you to be careful,” Linden insisted.

“Because I am in great danger of falling prey to the advances of a very attractive and charming teaching assistant?”

Linden sat at the desk, twisting her hands in her lap.

“Let’s go with that.”

Rye bent to their mini fridge, pulling out a yogurt and coming up with a wide stretch of her spine, hearing a satisfying crack. While yes, Rye was tired of her eccentric roommates’ strange and cryptic ways when it came to university living, she was also unbearably used to it. Rye forgave the salt at the windows, the fresh cream and blooming cacti outside their door, the tinkling charms and trinkets that hung from the ceiling and at their beds, because she loved Linden, and respected whatever spiritual inclinations that had led to these mild inconveniences.

 

Rye had experienced three years at Elsewhere, and after a while also got tired of questioning them, even though nothing had ever happened to warrant their existence in the first place. _See, that means they’re working!_ Rye had asked, _Working against what?_ But Linden had just smiled.

Linden had been her first friend here, and though she had a much more…whimsical way of approaching their environment, Rye had accepted that they just had different experiences, and it all went smoothly for the most part.

 

So when Linden had led her to Professor Khayyat’s class on Persian Lit (it was in the labyrinthine History building, which Rye assumed had been designed by some prison architect), Rye had been surprised when Linden grasped her arm suddenly, eyes fixed on the person at the small desk on the raised stage of the lecture hall, but Rye had simply removed it and continued to an unoccupied aisle, where she dropped her bag and sat.

Linden had followed her nervously.

“Is there any chance…you could meet the credit requirements in another class?” she asked Rye, her eyes unmoving from the stage.

“Well, yes, but why? I’ve heard good things about the prof, so it should be fun.”

“But they’re…”

“Who?” Rye followed Linden’s gaze. “Oh, _hello._ That must be the TA.”

They were gorgeous, in an incredibly ambiguous way. Long blonde hair that framed high cheek bones, slender legs in tight jeans, ringed fingers on a hefty book, Rye had to admit she was impressed.

“Rye, no. No, no. They’re one of _those._ ”

“Those what? Pretentious literary toolbags?” Rye sighed. “Yeah, I can see it. Still hot though.”

Linden gripped the chair, knuckles white. “No, just…don’t mess with them, okay?”

Rye looked at her.

“Oh,” she said, starting to grin. “Another premonition, huh?” Rye was used to Linden’s vague warnings regarding many of Elsewhere’s attendees. “Tell me, did this one spend their vast fortune on gambling, murder their family, and set fire to their grandiose mansion in the country?”

Linden looked at her with utter seriousness. Rye was enjoying this.

“Or no, wait, they were married once- no, twice- and by some mystery the bodies of their beloved were never found?”

“Just be _careful,_ Rye,” Linden said irritably, knowing it was no use.

She waited until Rye nodded, still smiling, and turned to leave.

 

But that had been three months ago, and though Rye had every intention of being careful, she had gotten to know the TA better, and found that she liked them very much.

Not that anything had _happened-_ Rye didn’t have the time or the patience for dating- but they had been out for coffee a couple times.

It had been an uneventful three months, but Linden didn’t see it that way.

“So they haven’t…asked you for anything?”

“Like what? Sex?” Rye laughed, stirring the yogurt. “Come on, I would never.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Linden said uneasily. “You just… Don’t see how tired you are.”

Rye shook her head, turning to plug in her phone. “I’m taking a lot of classes, Lin. I should just never have signed up for the extra-curriculars.”

Come to think of it, though, Rye wasn’t entirely sure how she _did_ end up in so many of them. She remembered Professor Khayyat asking, would she be interested in attending this conference on Post-Revolutionary Russian social realism? Would she like to lead a club on literary theory? How about copy editing the Comparative Literature magazine at Elsewhere?

The phone buzzed to life. A missed call from Mamá, a stressful reminder to keep in touch.

And Rye remembered (vaguely?) saying she was interested and would think about it. But she had somehow ended up doing all of those things, and miraculously managed to keep top grades.

Rye was tired, though. She would wonder about it later.

Linden bit her lip, but said nothing.

 

The Comparative Literature building had been a reminder of why Rye was here. It was old, and much more a house than a “building”, with its Victorian shutters, creaking wood floors, and looping stairways.

Elsewhere University had been a dream, a hopeful escape from a life she wasn’t really that interested in anymore. Rye had come seeking a respite from sadness, from choice and monotony and fear, and Elsewhere was both new enough and far enough to suit those parameters.

So Rye had left behind her mother and a broken home, stacked up a solid amount of debt at the price of higher education, and flown to the opposite side of the country in the vain hope of finding happiness. There was nowhere she’d rather be than, well, _elsewhere._ Which was fitting.

And she had fallen in love with the building and the program at orientation.

 

“What’s the name you chose?” asked her animated orientation leader (whose name tag read “Louise,” like, in quotation marks, which Rye refrained from asking about) as she led their small group to the old house.

Rye thought the tradition was heavy-handed and silly, but it was her first day and she’d be better off making a good impression.

“Rye,” she answered.

“Ohhh, Bukowski fan?” asked “Louise.”

Rye shook her head. “Butler.”

“Judith?”

“No, Octavia. But yes, sorry, I am a fan. Of Judith,” Rye answered, embarrassed.

“Louise” laughed.

“I think you’ll fit in just fine here.”

 

Now, three years later, when Rye made it to the heavy red door of the Comparative Literature department, she was early, and startled when the door opened before she had a chance to knock.

Professor Khayyat smiled at her, eyes too bright, accent unplaceable.  

“Why hello, Rye! But where is Nimho?” Rye was about to reply that she had no idea where his TA was, and why should she? But it was the professor’s way to emphatically prevent her from doing so. “It does not matter, come in! It is so good that you are here.”

He led her to the conference room, gesticulated wildly while going on about some study, until Rye found herself seated at the long table, Professor Khayyat across from her, smiling anticipatorily.

“Excuse me, what?”

“I will be going on sabbatical soon, traveling, you understand.”

“Yes.”

“And I leave these in your care.”

Rye looked down. In the professor’s hand were three keys on a ring.

“Oh, right,” Rye said sadly. “We’re so sorry to see you go, Professor.”

“Ah, Rye, so kind! But not to worry, I will return.”

He said it in such a way that implied it would be a very long time before he did so.

“But yes, there is the matter of these,” he said, nodding toward the keys. “They are for you, freely given, of course.”

“Of course,” Rye agreed, though she did not understand what he meant and was not about to ask. “What are they for?” she continued, taking the keys.

“Well, this one here is for the front door,” Professor Khayyat replied, gesturing. “This one is for my office,” he pointed ambiguously toward the upstairs. “And this is,” he paused. “Ah, hm. Rye, I cannot tell you. But you will know when you need it.”

 

They were on a coffee date late in the evening.

Rye tried to read the books due earlier in the week, tapping her pen against her mouth, scanning rather that understanding.

She could basically feel their eyes, and was unsurprised to find an intense, long-lashed gaze once she looked up. Rye often got lost in that gaze, and her mind scattered for something to say.

“Hard time focusing?” was what she settled on.

Nimho the teaching assistant continued to stare, before grinning a too-perfect grin.

“Speak for yourself.”

Rye felt herself redden, and for another of the many times in her life was grateful for a dark complexion.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Nimho continued. “You are a very cute distraction.”

“Right,” said Rye quickly, “Because you’re not just procrastinating on getting those papers graded.”

“Oh, watch how cleverly she changes the subject!” they laughed. “But truly, what’s not allowing you to concentrate?”

Rye thought.

“Well, there’s you of course,” she managed quietly. They raised an eyebrow. “What, with the perfect legs and princess hair, let’s be real.”

Not immune to flattery, their eyes widened and seem to glow.

“I don’t believe that’s all.”

“No,” Rye paused. “It’s not.”

“Tell me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

That was too big. Start smaller. Rye sighed.

“Elsewhere was supposed to save me,” with their inquiring look, Rye continued. “I thought if I went far enough that I would be happy, but it didn’t matter. I’m here, farther from the place I can’t call home anymore than I’ve ever been, and it didn’t change the fact that I’m broken.”

“Broken?”

“I,” Rye didn’t know what to say. “I still have trouble talking to people. I don’t know how to help my mom, or how to stop staring at the ceiling in my room long enough to get up. I keep thinking if I’m busy, if I don’t think and just fill my time with classes and events and people, that feeling hopeless will just go away, but it _doesn’t._ It’s-”

“Petrifying,” Nimho finished. “Quite literally, yes? Like you can’t move.”

Rye loved that voice. The long, delicate fingers that crossed knowingly around her hand.

“Yeah. Petrifying.”

They finished their cup and stood, sweeping seamlessly into a long coat.

“Coming?” they asked.

Rye closed her books, fitting them into her bag.

“Where?”

Nimho winked.

“I believe you have the keys.”

 

She had never been to the department this late into the night. The white exterior of the old house was more foreboding now, somehow more alive than when there were living things in it.

Nimho led her up the stairs once inside, past the moonlit windows and the tilting dark hallways, to another set of stairs. Rye had never been this far into the Comparative Literature building. In fact, she had no idea it was this large inside, and thinking on how she perceived the outside of it, it really _shouldn’t_ be this spacious.

But there they were, in front of a door on what, Rye hoped, was the top floor.

“Madame, if you would,” said the teaching assistant outside the professor’s door, curtsying lightly.

Rye put the second key in the lock, pausing.

“And we won’t get into trouble with the department for this?”

Nimho rolled their eyes, which were far too bright considering how poorly lit this hallway was.

“All will be well, there is no one here to stop you, as you can see.”

But Rye wasn’t sure of that. The house itself seemed to focus on them, waiting. But that could just be Rye’s paranoia. And hey, maybe there were cameras on this floor.

“Well?” their voice appeared to suit the darkness somehow, being the only sound and still fitting into the silence without breaking it.

It was too late now anyway, Rye unlocked the door and led them into the small office.

A comfortable room, actually: a desk in a corner, bookshelves lining the walls, the long couch by the window, international posters covering any open space.

Nimho was already sitting on the couch, gesturing for Rye to sit.

She did, crossing her legs to face them.

“Elsewhere may not have been able to save you,” they began, tapping long nails against the window. “But I can.”

Rye smiled, looking around them.

“That is a lovely sentiment, really,” Rye said. “But I don’t think illegally breaking into your professor’s office to spend _quality time_ ,” she winked, “with the teaching assistant is going to solve my problems.”

“This is not a joke, Rye,” they said, and though it was not said loudly, it was stated with such a degree of purpose that the voice sunk deep into Rye’s bones.

She did not think the house could be any quieter, now.

“Okay,” she replied, breathing out. “What do you suggest?”

Their eyes flickered from the window to her face, unblinking.

“Are you seeking my advice?” they asked, leaning in. “Do you wish for my counsel?”

“Technically, you offered it,” Rye replied in a low voice.

A shadow of a smile. A hand unfolded in front of her.

“Very well. Would you like to study magic with me?”

Rye blinked.

 

See, there was the problem, and it had been pretty simple all this time.

There were anxieties; the reason she felt so utterly alone; why she wished she did not have to be an active agent in her own life; how stories had drawn her in as a child only to irrevocably disenchant her: there was no magic.

I mean there's the fact that it was all lies and that's fine because it comes to be expected, but There Was No Magic. There Was Nothing Outside Our Comprehension That Was Great And Powerful And Foreign And Strange And Inevitably True and that was what had broken and devastated her.

So when this fine creature, with unusual eyes and lyrical voice looked at her in the darkness of the small office across a long grey couch late into the wee hours of morning, offering an open hand, whispering "Would you like to study magic with me," she had no idea what to tell them.

YES ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME OF COURSE, would have been an immediate and accurate reaction, but the truth about being disenchanted is that cynicism tends to come first.

So instead, she laughed.

But the key felt heavy in her pocket. And the intensity in those eyes did not change. And the unearthly quiet of the ancient house seemed wanting.

The laughter died in her throat.

 

She thought then about several things, correlating simultaneously. How Linden salted the edges of their room. The exhaustion after many an esoteric lecture. The occasions she had agreed to a compromise, with no memory as to how. The misplaced time and space. "They’re one of _those_ ". Why the timing was so odd and uncannily perfect. The way certain things simply _became_ around her, and not just her, everyone here.

 

“Magic.”

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“Yes.”

 

Rye remembered the night she and Linden walked through campus after a poetry reading she had been dragged to.

How Linden walked so nervously ahead of them. Whispering about them being out too late, past curfew, because that’s how trouble starts.

She remembered making fun of her.

“Will you chill? I’ve got pepper-spray. And a whistle,” Rye had ruffled through her bag. “Well, somewhere I’ve got a whistle. We’ll be fine.”

“ _We’ll be fine_ , she says,” Linden uttered impatiently. “ _I’ve got pepper-spray_ , she- You never pay attention, do you? You just, you never stop to wonder, ‘Why are there so many weird rules around here anyway?’ or ‘Gosh, how come no one hangs out around campus at night?’” Linden waited. Rye looked at her blankly. “Ugh, forget it.”

Rye hadn’t known what to say. Sure, she could be distracted sometimes, but Linden was implying a level of oblivious tactlessness that Rye now felt ashamed of.

She felt stupid then, and embarrassed, though she didn’t really know why.

Rye remembered the deathly quiet, the windless night watching as they made it back to the dorms without a word.

She felt stupid now, looking into the too-pale face of someone she hardly knew, and trusting them anyway.

 

She was given three keys.

Freely.

 

The eyes waited.

"I would," she said, taking the hand. "And I would need something in return."

A tilted head, amusement.

"Of course."

"I," Rye paused. The weight sinking again. Just begin. Try. "I don't want my mom to be sad. I want her to be content, and happy, and not tired all the time. I don't want anyone to have to pay my fuckton of loans. I just, don't want to leave anything unfinished. I don't want to hurt anyone when I leave."

A nod, as if understanding. Though she understood now that it was pretense, a human affectation to make her more comfortable. Still, it worked.

"That can be arranged."

Rye stood then, wiping her hands and taking out the key.

"Then let's get out of this town."

They gestured vaguely, bowing slightly toward her as the key led her to the wall, opening a door like a crack in space she had always imagined.

She stepped through.

 

The thing she would come to realize later, much later, when it no longer mattered, is that the arrangement did not do exactly as she wished, and yet fulfilled all of her established parameters. Rye left this world quite completely, with no trace of her ever having been in it. Linden had always had a different roommate. The debts were gone, since there was no one to have ever taken them out. Rye’s mother was somewhere surrounded by those she loved and not wont for a daughter, because she never had one.

The deal was so that she had never existed, which was just as well, as she had no intention of ever coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> I was really interested in the concept that most of Elsewhere's students aren't aware of Them in any capacity, so I decided to write about it. Thank you to charminglyantiquated for the wonderful premise!


End file.
